


Homecoming

by holyfudgemonkeys (erraticallyinspired)



Series: A very jizzjazz rewrite [1]
Category: Prodigal Son (TV 2019)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Dark Malcolm Bright, Date Night, Domestic Fluff, Episode: s01e01 Pilot, Established Malcolm Bright/John Watkins, Established Relationship, Fighting As Foreplay, Fluff, JizzJazz, M/M, Murder Husbands, Pre-Mpreg
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-26
Updated: 2020-08-26
Packaged: 2021-03-06 22:41:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,836
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26126677
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/erraticallyinspired/pseuds/holyfudgemonkeys
Summary: He unlocks his phone and dials his favorite number.“Malcolm,” John drawls in greeting.It’s enough to melt some of the tension from his shoulders. “Dear, plans have changed. I’ll be in the city by tomorrow.”---A rewrite of the pilot with established John/Malcolm
Relationships: Malcolm Bright/Paul Lazar | John Watkins
Series: A very jizzjazz rewrite [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1897057
Comments: 7
Kudos: 35





	Homecoming

The Springer case puts him in a horrible mood.

Malcolm’s made a point to never plan ahead for those hunts, because, despite all of the kills he’s managed to get in at the FBI, he knows better than to be cocky. So he lets the cases play out instead. If he’s feeling generous, he might try to reason with this week’s killer. He’ll talk them right into his trap and then close the cuffs. 

But when the opportunity presents itself, he gladly puts them down. Both ways net the same basic outcome, though the latter comes with the added bonus of sating his own ever present urge to play judge, jury, and executioner. When he makes his decision, it’s final. He does _not_ appreciate anyone stepping in after the fact.

Claude Springer was supposed to be taken into custody. He would have gone on trial. He would have gotten his sentence and joined the group of people Malcolm has spared. He was not supposed to be shot dead.

It infuriated Malcolm so much that he lost control, which, in turn, finally cost him his job, and _that_ is untenable. He sheds his suit in favor of an old, worn pair of pajama pants as soon as he gets back to his apartment. He unlocks his phone and dials his favorite number.

“Malcolm,” John drawls in greeting. 

It’s enough to melt some of the tension from his shoulders. “Dear, plans have changed. I’ll be in the city by tomorrow.”

“I’ll open the loft.” There’s a grin in his voice.

Malcolm matches it. It’s been so long since they had the chance to play house, and now that it’s close, now that he can practically smell the engine oil and sweat his husband always smells of, his firing doesn’t seem so dire. “And I’ll make arrangements.”

He’s going home tomorrow. For good.

There’s something comforting about being back in not just any city, but the city that birthed him. Gil doesn’t realize how right his nickname is. Malcolm is the product of his surroundings, and the sound of traffic rushing by, the anonymity of the crowds — there’s room here for another predator. His lips curl as he hails a taxi. “We’re home,” he murmurs to Sunshine’s cage. 

He gives the driver his address and crosses his legs, watching the city pass them by. He knows this route intimately. They’re the same streets he’s always taken on his way back to John. Every single vacation, every spring break and holiday, he’s hopped on a plane and followed them to his heart, telling himself that someday, the two of them would share a bed on a permanent basis.

For John, however, it would take Matilda’s passing to let go of the city. Malcolm knows he could convince his husband to retire his old stomping grounds as soon as the old hag was buried next to her equally despicable husband, but before then… 

Matilda always was a point of contention for the two of them. He’s learned over the years not to press it, just as John learned not to press about Martin. Family will never not be a sore spot, it seems. 

Malcolm brushes off the thought of his grandmother-in-law. He’ll have to see her and soon, of course, but the first few days back home will be spent in John’s arms if he has any say. 

Sunshine chirps in her cage as if in agreement.

The loft is quiet. The furniture covers have been removed, and the counters look impeccably clean. 

Malcolm doesn’t trust it. He sets Sunshine down by the door, the suitcase full of things he didn’t ship next to her. He toes his shoes off, too, to quiet his steps. There’s no one within sight, which doesn’t mean anything. The kitchen is clear. He slides a knife from the knife block. 

The bedroom is, too. The bathroom door should make a soft noise when it opens, though he can’t be sure John hasn’t played handyman and fixed that since the last time they spent a night there. 

Of course, while he debates checking there next, a kick catches him in the back of the leg, and he goes down hard, knife in his white-knuckled grip. Malcolm rolls over, tries to get up. He gets a boot to the wrist for his troubles, his spasming fingers letting the blade clatter against the hardwood. As soon as the pressure abates, however, he’s up and tackling his assailant, ready to use deadly force.

Sunshine makes a racket by the door. 

The man flips them and pins Malcolm beneath him.

Undeterred, Malcolm rears his head back against the floor and smashes their foreheads together, stunning his attacker and giving him the leverage to take control again. He straddles the man.

The loft quiets, only their combined heavy breathing in the air. 

Malcolm grins and laughs. “I missed you, too, dear.” He gently touches the red spot on John’s forehead from his headbutt. 

“You gonna kiss it better?” John says, his voice deep and rough. 

“If that’s how we’re playing it,” Malcolm responds as he trails his hand up into his husband’s shaggy hair, “I think you have a lot of work ahead of you tonight.” His wrist aches delightfully, and he has no doubt he’ll have some bruises from their playful tumbling. 

John lets him, despite knowing Malcolm’s affinity for hair-pulling. His hands settle on slimmer hips. “‘M not afraid of hard work.”

Their first kiss in months is bloody, their teeth clanking together with the force, Malcolm’s hand wrapped in silver-streaked strands, John’s digging into his skin. 

It’s _lovely_. 

The next morning, Ainsley takes one look at him and pretends to gag. 

Malcolm’s not fazed. She’s been doing this since he first started dating John, back when she was a teenager and more appropriately aged to make gross sounds whenever she found her brother making out with his boyfriend on the front porch. Their marriage certainly didn’t stop her. 

“You couldn’t have at least spared me your ‘just fucked’ face?” She pouts and knocks shoulders with him. “You haven’t seen your favorite sister in person in almost a _year_ , and this is how you greet me?”

“My only sister,” he corrects, even as the satisfied smile melts into a softer, prouder one. He _has_ missed his family. Although he’ll never admit it to John, it’s becoming clearer and clearer that moving back home was the right decision. 

Ainsley waves it off. “Well, clearly I don’t have to ask about how John feels about you moving back.” She sips her latte. “You know you don’t have too long before Mom finds out, right?”

He shrugs. “I was planning on calling her this afternoon.” It’s true that he’s avoided the topic of his physical separation from his husband in the past, not wanting to see the pity his mother might feel for him based on her own assumptions. Their situation is not the most typical, sure, but the bond he and John share is quite strong. Distance couldn’t weaken it. John, of all people, understood that Malcolm was fulfilling his purpose. 

Now, though, his path has brought them back into each other’s spheres. Malcolm will gladly assure his mother he’s here to stay — as long as John is.

She’ll be over the moon. He bets she’ll press him about grandchildren within the first half an hour afterwards. He doesn’t bother voicing it, knowing Ainsley wouldn’t take that bet.

Ainsley drains the dregs of her drink. “So, what you’re saying is that I should be prepared for a family dinner soon?”

He hums an affirmative. It’s unlikely their mother will let him push one off too long. 

“Hey, city boy,” an old familiar voice cuts in, the tone as warm as his grin.

Malcolm looks up and smiles. “Gil!” He’s all too happy to sink into the hug. This, too, was something he’s missed. The occasional long catch-up call was never quite enough, though he’s aware the space allowed him to grow into something with a wider scope than the NYPD. He’s not sure he would have been able to polish his modus operandi in a more tight-knit environment. 

Gil offers him a chance to consult on a case. 

Looks like Malcolm might have to learn to adapt his patterns sooner rather than later.

Before he even sees the crime scene, he’s giddy. He figured, walking out of that mortifying meeting at the Bureau, that he would never get the chance to see one up close again. Most police precincts wouldn’t hire a fired FBI agent, after all.

But Gil has always had a soft spot for him. 

Even now, as Malcolm strolls into the investigation, not pulling back on his enthusiasm, irritating the Lieutenant’s team, Gil just rolls his eyes and smoothes down any ruffled feathers. He may not have seen Malcolm ever work a case, but he knows him. He likely holds the memories of stakeouts in the Le Mans and discussing theories over takeout at his apartment just as fondly as Malcolm does. To a degree, Gil understands how his mind works.

So he lets him work. 

Malcolm takes it all in. The victim, an older woman, is sprawled across the floor. Her wrists are bruised but not freshly so. He crouches down to get a better look. His brow creases. Beyond the wrist bruising, this is familiar. _Sloppy_ , he thinks, distaste coloring his expression, _but familiar._

It’s The Surgeon’s work. Not _The_ _Surgeon_ , because Malcolm knows for a fact his father is still pacing the floors of Claremont. No, this is a copycat. A copycat without the grace and love and knowledge Martin Whitly always put into his masterpieces. 

While the work in front of him is nowhere near a masterpiece, it’s too close to have been done by some idiot who simply read about the murders. There are only two ways they could have copied it so closely. Either someone who worked at the precinct during The Surgeon’s reign has started killing or his father is sharing his work.

Malcolm has a good feeling he knows which is right. 

“Kid?” Gil says, hesitant.

Standing up, Malcolm keeps his eyes on the body. “Your killer is a copycat.” He looks over his shoulder at the Lieutenant. “But you already knew that, didn’t you?”

The grief and worry on Gil’s face is more than enough to remind him why he cares about this man. “I had to be sure.”

Malcolm closes his eyes and takes a deep breath to center himself. For now, he doesn’t mind if anything shows on his face. The depth of his disappointment in his father right now is painful to think about, but Gil and his team will see it as his reaction to the case. They won’t understand that he wants to grip Martin by his prison uniform and _shake_ , that he wants to scream and shout at him for somehow being both a surgical perfectionist and a sloppy, selfish man. 

If his father had just been careful, maybe he would have gotten what he always wanted — his son at his side, ready to take up the helm. 

“If you still want me to work on this,” Malcolm says, “I will.”

“I do.”

Just like that, he’s on the case. 

The ride home is a relief. As much as he loves crime scenes and his job, he’s much more interested in going home after the day he’s had. John’s presence has long had a soothing effect on him, and he sorely needs it and to talk about the ramifications of his father’s newest actions. There’s no doubt in his mind the press will get ahold of enough clues to put the big picture together. They’ll start talking about The Surgeon again. The Whitly family will be brought back into the public eye. All to stroke his father’s ego.

It’s disgusting. 

Malcolm bites his lip. He’s reasonably sure he can solve this before their copycat finishes off the quartet. That should ease this newest burden some.

As he walks up the stairs to the loft, he can tell something is happening. He cautiously opens the door. 

His mother is there, smiling tightly at John. She never did approve of him completely. Oh, she can see how happy his husband makes him, which is why she holds back on the bulk of her commentary, but she’s also been blunt about how much better he could do. Younger, richer, more ambitious — those are the things she wanted for her children. John is, in her opinion, of a much lower standard. 

“Mother,” he says, a rueful smile on his lips. He hadn’t called her that afternoon, after all. Malcolm glances over at his husband. “Dear.”

“I’ll make myself scarce.” John kisses him — a soft, overly loving thing just for Jessica — before wandering over to the couch. 

“I heard there was activity here,” his mother says, gaze lingering on her son-in-law with a slight hint of distaste. “I wish you would have told me you were moving back.”

Malcolm breezes past her to get a water from the fridge. “That was the plan. I was sidetracked. I promise, Mother, you were supposed to be the third to know.”

She arches a brow. “Third?”

“I saw Ainsley this morning.” He knows she won’t begrudge him that. 

She sighs. “Well, I’m glad you’re finally letting go of that awful job.” Her expression softens, and she moves closer, wanting to keep this between them. “I’m genuinely happy you two will have more time together. I know you love that… filthy mechanic.”

Malcolm nods. “I do,” he says honestly. 

His mother steps back again, gathering her purse. “I expect to see you at dinner soon, John,” she calls out as she lets herself out. 

Malcolm takes his bottle of water to the couch and snuggles up next to his husband.

“Why don’t you change into something more comfortable?” John says, wrapping an arm around his shoulders, running a hand down the sleeve of his suit jacket.

“I’ve been back in the city for twenty-four hours, and my father’s already pulled me back into his orbit.” Malcolm’s aware that he sounds tired. He is. He hoped he would have at least a few weeks before the temptation to visit Martin finally got to him. Now, he knows he’ll end up seeing him this week for one reason or another. If he doesn’t need to see him to solve the case fast, he’ll probably go afterwards, while it’s still fresh in his mind. 

John hums neutrally. “Tell me what happened.”

So Malcolm does. He talks about Gil’s offer, about the body, about his conclusions.

“Sounds like Martin,” John agrees. “Will you see him?”

“Of course I will,” Malcolm says bitterly. He sighs and repeats the same sentiment he’s voiced so many times over the course of their relationship. “I wish I didn’t love him.”

Holding him steady, being the rock he’s been for so long, John hugs him closer. “We can’t help who we love, little Malcolm.”

He’s better the next day, if only because they get a lead. Malcolm is eager to solve this case before their copycat finishes his quartet. Maybe they can even solve this before their family dinner tonight, and he can really relax with his husband, Ainsley, and his mother. It would be nice.

Then their lead ends up being a ruse of sorts, and he’s faced with what must be the most exciting sight he’s seen since coming back — with the exception of his husband, of course.

There’s a man cuffed to a chair.

A chair that has a _bomb_ under it.

They don’t have enough time to defuse it. They don’t have enough time to pick the locks, either, and they’re thick enough that breaking each one won’t be a quick matter. There’s only one option Malcolm sees that ends with all of them getting out of the apartment building alive.

He grabs an axe. 

JT nearly freaks.

Malcolm tries to pull back on his grin, already feeling the bloodlust rising, his last kill so many weeks ago at this point that he’s gotten twitchy. 

The axe splits flesh and bone with one hefty strike.

He, JT, and Nico are practically propelled out of the building by the fear and explosion. He’s only vaguely aware of JT helping the poor dom to a place where he can sit down and wait for the fast-approaching ambulance. His giddiness is still strong, still making him feel like he’s floating. It even eclipses the disgust he feels towards their copycat for leaving them a trail the way he did. 

Malcolm stumbles into Dani, the cooler with Nico’s hand in hand, and reassures her he’s fine.

He’s still coasting on the incident at dinner that night. 

John’s sitting next to him, as cleaned up as he ever is, his hair slicked back, his beard trimmed, and clad in one of the shirts Jessica not so subtly gave him for Christmas one year. He always does make an effort for the Whitly family dinners.

Jessica makes one, too, when he plays along. She sips her wine slowly and doesn’t make any snide comments. 

Everything’s good. 

Until she finds out that Malcolm’s working for Gil.

Really, he should have expected it would come out sooner or later. “This is what I trained for, Mother,” he says, standing firm. “Not every case will be related to The Surgeon.”

Ainsley gives him a sympathetic smile. Their mother wasn’t too terribly excited when she insisted on journalism, either.

Then Jessica turns to John, her mouth pinched. “I know we don’t often see eye to eye, but _please_ tell me you see where I’m coming from, John. Martin has already ruined one marriage. He doesn’t need to ruin yours, too.”

John sets his silverware down carefully, politely.

(Malcolm knows it’s not something he learned for these occasions. Manners were beaten into his husband. He tries not to think about it now lest he start _planning_.)

“I’m sorry, Jessica,” John says slowly, “but I’ve always supported your son in his career. That won’t change now.”

Malcolm slides his hand over to bridge the small gap between them.

Without looking over, John takes it, squeezes it with his own. “I trust Malcolm just as much as I don’t trust his father.” 

She knocks back the rest of her wine and pushes away from the table. “Please finish your dinners without me,” she says bitterly. The clack of her heels trails off.

Malcolm resists the urge to follow after her, knowing that he can’t tell her any of the things she wants to hear.

The next day, he finds himself exactly where he didn’t want to be. The building looks exactly the way it had ten years prior, not a single stone out of place. 

But Malcolm is different. He’s older. Wiser. Beloved. He has ten years of life without Martin Whitly behind him now, and while he can’t say he hasn’t missed his father, he’s aware enough to admit that his life has been better. The space was enough to grow. 

He _won’t_ make the same mistakes The Surgeon did.

The sign-in process is remarkably similar. He uses his connections to the NYPD this time, though he’s sure his father never removed him from the visitor list. The security officer gives him a badge. He smooths down his jacket — one of John’s, layered over his own less formal clothes — and walks down all-too familiar hallways. 

Mr. David is surprised to see him. He looks mildly disapproving, too.

Malcolm brushes it off. He understands where the man is coming from, but he’s just another in a long list of people Malcolm will never let in enough to see. 

His father is different, too. Physically, at least. He’s grayed significantly since they last talked. 

(Malcolm tries not to think about how much his final departure might have influenced that.) 

The cell around them is much cozier. His father is obviously settled here with his perks, looking for all the world like the king of his castle. When he sees his son, the glamor of it all dips for just a moment, shining even brighter as he registers that it’s real. 

His son _is_ here.

Ten years, and Malcolm’s counted every single day. Ten years, 3,723 days, a proposal, a marriage, a career. He remembers all of it so clearly. He and John were already dating when he cut his father off, their relationship less than a year old but flourishing nevertheless. They were two killers dancing around each other, teeth wicked sharp and gazes intent. 

Ending his visits with Martin only brought them closer. It allowed them to close the gap and take their first steps into the world as husband and husband.

Thankfully, Malcolm’s sure they’ll make it through this without any problems. He thinks about the chain around his neck, the simple band dipped down beneath his shirt. The fact that it hangs so close to his heart is a lovely coincidence. His job at the Bureau wasn’t suited to wearing a precious ring on his finger unless he wanted to risk losing it, and so it’s rested on the chain for the bulk of the time he’s owned it. Now, he realizes he’s never been so thankful for that chain before. 

His father won’t learn anything about his marriage if he can help it.

(Though Malcolm can’t say he wouldn’t want to see Martin’s face when he realizes just _who_ his son-in-law is.)

He watches his father closely, picking up as many hints as he can about the man’s real emotions. He’s all too aware that Martin Whitly is a manipulator, and now that he’s had a break from him, Malcolm hopes he’ll be able to see through some of it. 

Of course, his father drags this encounter out. He doesn’t admit a single thing upfront, because that’s not how he works. He only confessed — in retrospect — to the murders they accused him of, though Malcolm is sure he has more under his belt. What’s baffling now, however, is that he’s already serving a life sentence. He doesn’t need to lie with the stubbornness he’s employing now.

And then it hits Malcolm. His father doesn’t want him to leave. He forces down a smile, not of satisfaction but of genuine love for the man in front of him. While he missed his father so much it ached, he could never be sure the sentiment was reciprocated beyond Martin losing his audience. He finds himself wishing yet again that his father hadn’t been so damn careless towards the end. 

That’s enough to snuff out the smile completely. Martin is doing it again, being obvious and careless and uncaring of the consequences, and Malcolm can’t help the annoyance that rises. He goes for his father’s journals, taunts him with more visits if he cooperates.

He walks out of that cell with a name. Pulling his cell phone out of his pocket, Malcolm taps on John’s name. 

_I should be home for dinner._

The confrontation with Berkhead is boring. The thrill he usually feels at this stage isn’t there. Malcolm already knows he can’t kill this man, because not only is Dani there, down but aware, but this is his first case with the NYPD — with _Gil_. He can’t afford to be suspicious in any way, especially not in light of his father’s involvement, and so Berkhead will most likely go to jail in one piece. 

_Unless_ Malcolm can force him to attack directly. Then it wouldn’t be so odd if he had to incapacitate the man, would it? 

“You don’t deserve it,” Berkhead blubbers.

How his father ever thought this man had what it takes to do the quartet justice he’ll never understand. It’s a miracle any of the murders were recognizable. “That’s the thing, Carter,” he says, letting his eyes widen, soften. The trap is set. “I do.”

Berkhead listens. He follows the trail of crumbs right into the predator’s jaws.

“My real name is Malcolm Whitly.” Malcolm keeps his eyes on the killer, but he notices Dani still out of the corner of his eye. He reminds himself that Gil trusts her. If she can’t get over this revelation by herself, she’ll turn to her boss. It’ll be okay. “I betrayed him. I became a profiler and hunted down people like him.”

The sloppy, the reckless, the killers who needed their egos stroked by the world. Although he’s spared more than he’s put down — if you count life sentences and death row as ‘spared’ — he has nearly as many kills under his belt as his father does on record. Sometimes, in the night after a kill, all alone in a hotel room, he’d think about the morality of it all. Malcolm’s still a murderer. So is John. Their choice of victim doesn’t change that. 

But they’re both _careful_. 

Malcolm promised himself he would be, back on that day in ‘98. He watched his father lose his caution kill by kill. He watched him get cocky as each one passed without the cops getting anywhere close to the solution. He watched him begin to jeopardize the entire family without a care. 

The last girl The Surgeon kidnapped might even be alive. Malcolm remembers going to the cabin that week, remembers meeting his future husband for the first time and traveling there together, the girl drugged in the back. Tension brewed between his father and John then. Malcolm remembers picking up the pocket knife, launching himself at John, sinking the short blade into his side and experiencing the slip of steel through flesh for the first time, blood slicking his fingers. 

His father supposedly dragged John out to die. His wedding band is proof that Martin didn’t stick around long enough. Then he ‘took care of’ the girl, but her body was never found. Malcolm never saw it _or_ her again. He only knows that his father came out of that basement with a thoughtful look on his face, no blood in sight. It terrified him, made him begin to doubt whether his father loved them at all. It terrified him to pick up the phone that night several weeks later, too, but, despite being a mere ten years old, Malcolm knew what had to be done in order to salvage what was left of the family.

“Now’s your chance,” Malcolm says, finally feeling the thrill racing through his chest, ready to knock Berkhead unconscious at the very least, “to kill me, his prodigal son.”

Dani screams.

Berkhead rushes for him.

Malcolm tenses in anticipation.

Gunshots ring out from behind him. 

Malcolm waits at the scene, flashing police lights all around him. Fifteen feet away, Gil talks to Dani and JT, no doubt explaining the night his father was arrested. Malcolm knows well enough to let him do it. His detectives will need at least a day to absorb it before seeing The Surgeon’s son again, surely. 

John pulls up in his pickup. His eyes find his husband’s right away.

Malcolm smiles and gets into the passenger side, waving goodbye to Gil. He sinks into the leather seat. “Home?”

John hums. “Not yet.”

When they finally park, it’s in front of a small establishment Malcolm recognizes. They went here the last time he was in the city.

It’s an axe throwing bar. 

“You didn’t,” he says fondly.

“There are two lanes waiting for us.” John leans over the center console to pull him into a rough kiss. He’s always loved going axe throwing with Malcolm. He claims it’s all Malcolm, that seeing his husband flip a blade and effortlessly sink it into a target is hot, but Malcolm knows he also gets riled up from the feel of the wood in his hand and the knowledge that the blade is sharp enough.

Ready to kill. Or maim, depending on how he feels.

Malcolm can’t say he doesn’t feel the same.

They walk in together, quickly signing their waivers and getting their equipment. Unfortunately, they’re not allowed to bring their own. John orders a plate of chicken fingers and another of pretzels and cheese for them to share. Finger foods have always sat better with Malcolm’s stomach, especially if they involve cheese, and he knows it. They’ll get beers after they turn in their axes, as per bar rules.

“Have I told you I love you recently?” Malcolm says as he tests the weight of the weapon in his hand. It’s decent.

John huffs a laugh. “Love you, too.” Rocking back then forward, he tosses the axe at the target with one hand. It sticks in a few inches above the bullseye.

It’s all too easy to imagine him the way he is when he’s in his element — sweaty, stern, a sharpened blade in hand, and an addict in his sights.

Malcolm brushes his hair back, sends his husband a sultry look, and sinks his own axe into the target.

**Author's Note:**

> More episodes will follow, and the rating will go up! Please note the 'pre-mpreg' tag - future fics in this series will involve mpreg.


End file.
